Paying It Forward?
by Maxie Kay
Summary: My Christmas story for 2012. Have you ever wondered why Deeks took Kensi to the soup kitchen for Christmas 2010? Or what he did the following year? All is explained...
1. Chapter 1

**Paying it Forward?**

An NCIS fanfiction for Christmas

by

Maxie Kay

_Ever wondered why Deeks took Kensi to the soup kitchen on Christmas Eve in 2010? Or why he was greeted quite so enthusiastically? Was he "paying it forward" – or was there some other reason? And what happened in 2011, after Kensi left for Hawaii? Here's my take on things…_

* * *

_**Part 1: Deeks**_

"Paying it forward again, Marty?" Angela says brightly, and I cringe inwardly. That particular phrase has never sat easily with me. No, scrub that thought. If you really want to know, the mere mention sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up on end. It's kind of like when I'm playing the violin and suddenly morph into entirely the wrong key, so the resulting cacophony sounds like someone's murdering a cat in the next-door yard. But Angela's a nice lady, she's always smiling and cheerful, she was there for me when it counted, and I really don't want to offend her, so somehow I manage to swallow down the witty retort that comes to my lips. See, sometimes I do think before I speak, contrary to what Sam Hanna might tell you. It doesn't happen that often though, so you might want to note this day down in your diary for future reference.

"Something like that," I agree and look around at the hall. It's still in a state of chaos and we've got to be ready to serve Christmas dinner to the hungry hoards in a few hours time. It's hard not to notice the decided lack of helpers this year. "Looks like we're going to have our work cut out for us."

The enthusiastic look slides off her face and just for a moment, Angela looks downcast. "We were hoping for more volunteers – but I guess people are busy," she admits ruefully. Like she's not busy herself, what with her full-time job, a husband who has a fondness for the ponies and a mother-in-law who lives with them and makes Angela's life pretty miserable. But somehow Angela manages to make time for other people. That's the thing about her – she reaches out and helps, without ever having to be asked. It's hard not to like her. I love her and you don't hear me say that about many people. But you see, long ago Angela saved me. I wouldn't be who I am today, and I certainly wouldn't be standing here, if it wasn't for Angela. So what if she has a corny turn of phrase?

"Probably." I reach out and clasp her shoulder. "But we'll manage. We always do." She's taught me that much at any rate – that you do your best, whatever the circumstances. And you do it with a smile on your face. Only right now, I don't feel much like smiling.

I've been coming here for more years than I care to recall, since I was just a kid, so it's kind of become a habit. You see, there are so many people who have nowhere else to go at Christmas and not enough to eat. And there are even more people who don't have a single soul who cares about them enough to invite them to come to dinner for one lousy day in the year. Christmas can be the loneliest day of the year. Believe me on that.

"What about that young lady you brought with you last year? Your girlfriend?" Angela gives me a knowing look, which I pretend not to see. She is fishing: she knows it and I know it too. Only I'm not about to bite that juicy piece of bait.

"Kensi? Oh, she had other plans. And she's not my girlfriend. She's just…" My voice trails into nothing, because what is Kensi? That's the $64,000 question. I know what I'd like her to be. Obviously. I'm not dead from the neck down – thank God. Anyway - what about Kensi? Now that is a really great question. It's one I'd love to know the answer to. Only there are no answers as far as I can tell – just endless frustrating rebuffs, and then all of a sudden Kensi will let me in, drawing me in so that I'm hopelessly entangled in her fine spider-web, just before she fastens my ankles to a stone and I go plummeting down once again. No, there are no answers and there will be no "happily ever after" for Kensi and me, because this isn't a fairy tale, this is real life, more's the pity.

"Kensi's just a work colleague", I say lamely, aware that it makes me sound like I'm about 16 again.

"What a pity." And to her eternal credit, Angela looks genuinely upset. Last year, she kept engineering situations so that Kensi and I were never more than about three feet apart. I think she had high hopes of romance blossoming over the potato peelings, or something. As if. If only… Kensi and I - we're work colleagues, that's all we are. The more I think about it, the more I realise we probably aren't even friends. Because friends give each other presents at Christmas, don't they? Friends tell you about their vacation plans – and I don't mean springing it on you at the very last minute.

"Yeah." Ain't that the truth? Stupidly, I'd kind of been hoping Kensi and I would come here together today, because last year had been fun. We'd worked together, and then we'd eaten together. It had been a good day and I'd been planning for an even better day this year. I had this dumb idea that we might even have made it our kind of tradition, in the same way that Callen always spends the holidays over at Sam's. More fool me. Today, during the enforced jollity of the office party, Kensi told me she had plans for the holidays. Plans which she made clear did not involve me in any way, shape or form. Which kind of bummed me out, if you want the truth. I thought things were going well, that we were finally getting somewhere, but it turned out that I was going precisely nowhere all on my lonesome, while Kensi was jetting off to Hawaii. Go figure.

Now, at the risk of sounding immodest, I'm a great travel companion. And an even better surfer. So who wouldn't want me to chum along on a trip to the islands; to the sun, surf and hula dancers? You really want the answer to that? Okay, I'll give it to you in one word: Kensi Blye. Only that's two words. See, that's the effect she has on me, she's got me so that I can't even think straight, far less count. It's either that or the early onset of senile dementia. Great. Sometimes I think someone up there has it in for me, no matter what I do. Pay it forward? Give me a break. Next thing you'll be suggesting I actually watch that awful movie of the same name, only I've never been into emotional blackmail, if it's all the same to you. If I want to watch something life-affirming and actually believe that one person can make a difference, then I'll watch _It's A Wonderful Life_, thank you very much. Only I always feel the prickle of tears right at the beginning, where the boy who grows up to be Jimmy Stewart pleads with the druggist not to hit him, so I only ever watch that movie if I'm in an especially masochistic mood.

"Maybe Kensi might come along later?" Angela is doing a fine job of demonstrating the triumph of hope over experience. Only I'm all out of hope right now, so I just shake my head and then slope off into the kitchens, where I put on a great show of having fun while scrubbing countertops before we actually start cooking. I'm the life and soul of the place and nobody would possibly guess how empty I feel inside. The great pretender, that's me.

Throughout the evening, I look up every single time the doors open and each time I do so my treacherous heart misses a beat, because I'm hoping it will be Kensi coming in. And there are times when I could swear I catch the scent of jojoba oil and I look up, excepting to see her standing behind me with that wicked grin on her face that seems to promise so much. Or is that one of my fantasies intruding into reality? Probably, but it's such a good one, I think we'll let it slide, don't you? Only she doesn't come. Kensi has better things to do, after all. Who am I kidding, thinking she might turn up? Heck, she didn't even give me a Christmas card. I mean, how much effort does it take to write a card? Don't answer that, because I don't want to hear. And in the meantime there is work to be done. I'm grateful for that, and for the company, if you want the truth. It's not only the homeless who have nowhere to go at Christmas: it's people like me. But I don't want to make a big deal about that, okay? There are plenty of people just like me and I'm used to it. Most of the time. It's just the way things are, and it's the way they've been for a long time. Only sometimes, it's kind of hard. We all know that Callen is all alone in the world – well guess what? He's not the only one. Only some of us keep it quiet. Which is possibly a mistake and is probably the reason why I'm standing here in a steamy kitchen, instead of relaxing with a cold beer over at Sam's place. I never learn, do I? Even though I'm old enough to know better, I just keep hoping that things might be different. Only they aren't. I'm still me and Kensi's still Kensi and never the twain shall meet. More's the pity.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, Marty!" It's just after midnight, and Angela envelops me in a bear-hug that threatens to crack my ribs. It feels good, despite the momentary pain and I hug her back fiercely. For a brief second I drop my head onto her shoulder and let myself imagine that she is my mother, and it feels so damned good. All of a sudden this crummy kitchen feels like home. The only problem is that I don't exactly feel like celebrating, because my stupid heart is on a plane, flying towards Hawaii for Christmas with Kensi by my side. And I'm stuck in LA. Go figure that one out, and if you can make any sense of it, do me a favour and let me know. I need all the help I can get here.

Next year will be different, I vow silently, when we've eventually finished for the night. Next year I'll book a vacation and I'll damn well go to Hawaii myself, where I can surf all day and drink all night. Or part of the night: the rest can be occupied by some beach bunny. After all, there's nothing like some mindless sex after a day spent chasing waves. Only I know I'm not going to do that. And I also know that I probably should, but I'm not going to. Next year I'll be here – again – and Kensi will be somewhere else – again. Do you really want to know why I spend my Christmas vacation helping out in a food kitchen? I'm not some selfless good Samaritan, for crying out loud and I'm certainly not paying anything forward. I'm here because I've got nowhere else to be and nobody to be there with. Plus, I owe Angela. So I might as well be miserable in LA and save some money. And with that cheery thought, I go home.

When I get to my apartment, Monty is there waiting for me, tail thudding off the floor and a familiar expression on his dopey face.

"You want to go out?"

Stupid question: of course he does, Deeks. He's been cooped up in here for hours, just waiting patiently for me. And when I eventually roll in, there's no recriminations, quite the contrary: it's like he couldn't ask for anything more. Monty is probably the only living creature who can put up with me and still love me - unconditionally. Go figure. So, even though I'm fit to drop, I grab his lead and see his eyes light up with joy as he almost skips to the door. It takes so little to make a dog happy. But hey, it wouldn't have taken a whole lot to make me happy either. Just a card would have done. That would have been enough – to start with at any rate. You see, I could never have enough of Kensi, and that's all there is to it.

Outside and Monty is in his element. He's sniffing the night air like a demented a vacuum cleaner on overdrive, dragging me along from street corner to kerb in a crazy fashion that presumably makes sense to his brain, but nearly manages to dislocate my shoulder in the process. On our chaotic travels we encounter this couple, arm in arm, full of the joys of the season and patently in love. The streets are almost deserted – it's just love's young dream, plus me and my mutt. Great. Much as I love Monty, I'd much rather have a hot girl on my arm. More precisely, I'd rather have Kensi on my arm – or even better, in my bed. Or in hers. I'm not picky. Exactly what did I do that was so bad that Kensi has to go all the way to Hawaii for Christmas? Only that's not fair – Kensi's vacation is about her and this is about me. I've probably only got myself to blame. Like I said, Monty's probably about the only living creature who would put up with me.

You know, it's probably a good thing that all the bars around here are shut or I'd be tempted to drown my sorrows. Only right now, the way I feel right now, there isn't enough booze in California that would make me feel better. Then I see this old guy, who has all his possessions in a shopping cart, sitting slouched in a shop doorway. You can smell the stench of cheap, rotgut whiskey from ten paces, but that barely masks the sour, unwashed smell of that's coming from him. The clothes I use for my undercover ops as a down-and-out are positively fragrant by comparison. For a moment I consider making his day, giving him a hundred bucks and tell him to go wild – that would really be paying it forward with a vengeance, and I'd avoid a hangover into the bargain. Only I don't do that. What kind of warped sadist do you think I am? The only person I beat up is myself. No, I just tell him about the soup kitchen and how he can go to get a hot meal in the morning, and he looks at me bleary-eyed.

"That ain't much of a dog you've got there, buddy." His breath is enough to knock a man out and close-up I see he isn't nearly as old as I'd thought. In fact, he's probably not even forty. I should feel sorry for him, but I don't. Taking a cheap crack like that about Monty is a low shot, even for a guy in his condition.

Now, say what you like about Monty (and most people do) but he's actually highly intelligent and from the look of disgust that creep across his furry face you can tell he knows when he's been insulted. There's a brief moment when it looks as if Monty is considering cocking his leg once more, only I tug his leash and get him out of the immediate vicinity of our less-than-savoury companion.

"It takes all kinds," I say. "And he's one of the best." And for some reason, knowing how Monty's looks are the least part of who he is, I reach into my pocket and pull out a handful of crumpled notes and hand them over. "Merry Christmas. From me and the mutt." The look of surprise on his face is priceless.

We walk on, me and Monty, along the empty streets and I try not to look out across the ocean. I try, but I don't succeed. Because somewhere out there, winging across the wine-dark waters and out on to the edge of time, far beyond my reach is sunshine and Kensi. She's there and I'm here and quite frankly it sucks. There's nothing here for me and nothing else to do but go back home and try to work out where things went so wrong with Kensi and if I can ever do anything to make things right between us. And once I've solved that, I'll go on to cure world poverty as an encore.

Later on today, I'll go back to the hall and I'll serve up meals with a smile on my face, because these people have got enough problems of their own without me adding to them. And Monty will trot around happily with a Santa hat on his head and a collar of bells around his neck, looking so dopey that you just can't help but laugh. Monty's good at making people forget they're miserable for a few seconds. He even manages to make me smile when I'm feeling like crap – which I am right now, incidentally – and it's not even like I've got the excuse of a hangover to blame it on.

I am going to make it my mission in life to find out who came up with that stupid phrase "paying it forward", if it's the last thing I do. Because we all have our reasons for doing things, and very few of them are altruistic. Sometimes we do things because the alternatives are unthinkable, or because we owe someone and sometimes we do things for the simple reason that we've got nothing else to do. And then there are the times when we just do things because – because life doesn't give you a choice and your heart propels you forward, despite all your best intentions. I guess that's why I keep trying with Kensi and why I didn't let her see that I felt like she'd kicked me in the guts when I gave her that present and she gave me precisely nothing, literally and metaphorically.

You see, I'd stupidly expected something from her. Anything would have done, if you really want the truth – because I thought we had this "thing", me and Kensi. God help me, I don't quite know what it is, but I do know what I'd like it to be. If there was any justice in the world, if this "paying it forward" crap really existed, then why isn't Kensi in LA right now and why aren't we spending the day together? (That's a rhetorical question, just in case you were wondering.) We might be partners, but I'm here and Kensi's there and there's this whole damn ocean between us. End of story, roll credits and leave the movie theatre. Even when we're together there are times when it feels like Kensi is putting up the mental equivalent of the Berlin Wall around herself. That "thing" we've got? It's probably nothing. Which is pretty much the story of my life and why at the end of the day it's just me and Monty. And yet, there are times when I think there we might have something, that Kensi might just learn to trust me one day and that's what keeps me going. She guards her heart so closely, but I'm hoping I might just sneak in under the radar when she's not looking. So I'm a dreamer? So what. Let me keep my dreams, they keep me going. Just don't trample them all underfoot, because they're kind of fragile.

So, it's the early hours of Christmas morning and I'm kind of morose, sitting in my empty apartment just staring into space when there is a clatter of claws on the wooden floor and then a cold, wet nose is thrust into my hand. Monty gives me one of his adoring looks, like I'm the only person in his world and as he rests his head in my lap things slide into place and start to make sense. The best day's work I ever did was rescuing Monty from the pound after he didn't make the grade in the K9 unit and was looking death in the face. And he's repaid me every single day since with his unquestioning love. So maybe there is something in this whole "paying it forward" thing after all? Maybe. The jury's still out on that one. But (and it's a big "but", so big it really should be in block capitals) if there is some vague hope, then maybe next Christmas Kensi and I might actually be in the same city. Hell, we might even be together. Whatever "together" means… I mean, I'm not too fussy right now, in fact I'll take whatever I can get and be grateful. But if we're together, then anything could happen. Couldn't it? Just to be with Kensi for Christmas – that's all I want. Surely it's not too much to ask for – is it? I mean, this is Christmas, the time of hope, miracles and goodwill to all men – which has to include Marty Deeks, doesn't it?

But it's late and I'm not thinking straight because I'm exhausted. Really, I should be in bed and dreaming. Only I know I'm not going to dream about sugarplums but about Kensi. No change there then. She haunts my dreams just as much as she inhabits my day. Why does it always come back to Kensi? Once I figure that one out, everything else will be easy. Well, in my dreams, at any rate. And I'm not about to stop dreaming any time soon.

And in the meantime there's always Jimmy Stewart and _It's A Wonderful Life_.

* * *

_Due to illness, I've been absent from here for far too long. Here's the first part of my Christmas story for this year – I hope you enjoy it. I'll be updating this story weekly._

_Rest assured, my unfinished stories will be updated soon!_

_So many thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing – it has meant more to me than you could ever know. And I'd love to hear what you think about this latest story too._

_Until next week – Maxie Kay._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all so very much for the wonderful welcome back!_

_**Part 2: Kensi**_

So, I'm sitting in the departure lounge at LAX on Christmas Eve, waiting for my flight to be called, and wondering what the hell I'm doing. Okay, you're probably wondering that too, because this is kind of confusing, so let's rewind to the beginning… Well, not quite the beginning, but far enough back so that this all makes some sort of sense.

And that's exactly what I'm trying to do – struggling to make sense of why my father was killed and in the process to find out who the killer was. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do after that. You see, my father was my guiding star, the one man who believed in me unconditionally and the one man I trusted implicitly. Well, maybe not the only man. I mean, Deeks comes close. Actually, he sometimes comes too close for comfort. He gets under my skin in a way I can't begin to explain. And that can't happen, I can't allow that to happen and I won't allow it to happen. Because I can't get distracted. I owe it to my father to bring his killer to justice – whatever form that takes. Like I said, I haven't quite decided what happens once I find the bastard who murdered him. I've been obsessed with my quest for years, spending all my spare time digging up information and following leads wherever I can, so I'm not about to let myself get distracted over Deeks. He's just a man, that's all. Nothing special.

Who am I kidding? I'm distracted alright. I'm sitting here in an airport on Christmas Eve, about to jet off to Hawaii and all I can think about is Deeks and the way he looked at the party. Oh, he looked good, don't get me wrong. But then Deeks always looks good: that's kind of a given. Not that I would ever tell him that: not in a million years. He's quite cocky enough already. Marty Deeks is very possibly the most confident, self-assured and self-satisfied man I have ever met in my entire life. But there was something in his eyes when I told him I was going on vacation, something that he couldn't quite manage to hide for just the briefest instant before those defences came slamming right back up. He puts on a good act, does Deeks. Most of the time. Sometimes I think there might be more to Deeks than meets the eye and that for a lot of the time he's just putting on an act. And sometimes I could hit him for that, for always joking about his past, when it's kind of obvious that something went haywire early on. Only I have this awful suspicion that Deeks would get some perverted pleasure out of me smacking him, so I don't. Most of the time. I have been known to smack him on the butt on occasion. Just because. That's a good enough reason, isn't it? But basically it's because his butt looks so good and I can resist everything but temptation. Especially when it's put right there in front of me on a daily basis. And Deeks can be very annoying. He can also be sweet and thoughtful and I can be a complete bitch. Only I don't want to think about the party in the Mission…

Hawaii for the holidays – how good does that sound? Close to idyllic, if you're me, because I'm more than ready to get away from LA. I don't really do holidays, especially Christmas – well, Jack kind of ruined that holiday for me. Just like he ruined my life for years. But that's all in the past, I've moved on and made a new life. I'm just not sure if I'm happy with it, that's all. You get used to being part of a couple, you see, and while I don't miss Jack, I do miss having someone in my life. And especially at Christmas time, when it seems like everyone else has somebody important to be with. Which was one reason I decided to go away. I'd been in Hawaii already this year on work-related trip, although I did manage to squeeze in a little pleasure, and I fell in love with the place. However, this trip is going to be something completely different, because there is a man I needed to see, a man who might have some information, just enough to take me another step along the road that will eventually going to lead me to my father's killer and… And what? Good question. I told you already that I haven't quite worked out what I going to do when I reach that stage. Shoot him? Stab him? There are so many options and I don't have to decide right now. There's plenty of time and this is just one more piece of the puzzle that needs to be set into place, and then I can have a great vacation. I might even look up a few of the guys I met this summer. I'm footloose and fancy free. The world is my oyster. I wonder how many other clichés I can come up with to disguise the fact that I feel empty inside. And that right now I kind of hate myself.

You see, I've got this sinking feeling deep in my stomach that while I'm going off to Hawaii to see about a man, there's another man I need to see even more and there's somewhere else I need to be. And try as hard as I might, I just can't shake that feeling. That's the thing about Deeks – he gets under your skin, kind of like a tick – and just as annoying. He just doesn't budge, no matter how hard I push him or pull away from him. It's like he's always there for me, no matter what I say or do. And you know what? I like that. I like that I can trust him and I like knowing that he'll always be there - that Deeks will always be there for me. Except that earlier on today, I think I might have pushed him too hard. I think I might just have pushed him away for good. If Deeks is stubborn (and he is, believe me on that) then I'm intractable. Once I make my mind up, that's it. Ask my mother if you don't believe me.

My mother? Well, that's another long story, but the short version is that she's not been in my life for years. She tried to make me take me away from my dad, and I went along with it for just long enough to lull her into a false sense of security. Then I hightailed it back home just as fast as I could. It only took me a couple of days, which is pretty good for an pre-teen going across a couple of states, don't you think? Anyway, she tried – and she failed. I haven't seen her since and I don't think about her. Not often, anyway. Well, not that often. Hardly ever, in fact. I was a Daddy's girl, you see. I still am. You don't stop loving somebody just because they're dead. That's the thing about love – it's always there and it's uncontrollable. Sometimes it just creeps up on you and sometimes it hits you like a thunderbolt in the most unlikely situations. Like in a crummy gym that smells of sweat and testosterone…

Oh God. I've had a pedicure, got my legs waxed (and all the rest, if you really must know) and bought three new bikinis. I am so ready for this vacation. I deserve a break for once in my life. I am going to Hawaii and that's an end to the matter. So why I am thinking about last Christmas and some crummy soup kitchen… and Deeks?

"Get a grip, Kensi," I mutter under my breath. "People would kill for a vacation like this." I conveniently manage to ignore the fact that I might be the one doing the killing on this vacation. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm good at suppressing things I don't want to think about. Only they have a bad habit of popping up at the most awkward times. Like now.

The guy sitting next to me gives me the weirdest look and then moves away. I guess I sounded a bit fiercer than I meant to. And I might have spoken a bit more loudly than was strictly necessary. It's all Deeks' fault, of course. I mean, why did he have to be so nice? Why did he have to get me a present? I'd been so busy, getting things organised for my trip that I hadn't had time to do anything like out shopping for presents. And I never give gifts to the rest of the team anyway. After all, what do you get for Hetty: the woman who has everything and therefore re-gifts anything you do give her, or for Callen: the man who has nothing and is insanely proud of the fact? Only Deeks had to give me this sweet, thoughtful present and it made me feel bad. Actually, I felt like digging a hole and crawling into it, that's how terrible I felt. And judging from the looks Nell was throwing me at the party, she would have been only too happy to help shovel the dirt on top of me.

Deeks' present is right here beside me, sitting in the front pocket of my carry-on luggage and for some strange reason I take out the bottle, unscrew the cap and let the aromas float upwards, surrounding me in a mist of fragrance. Damn Deeks. Why does he have choose today to stop being annoying and start being thoughtful? And there was something in his eyes – or was I imagining things? I tend to that quite a lot – imagine things about Deeks, that is.

No. I'm not going there. Absolutely not going there. No way. I am not going to start thinking about Deeks – again. This is far too important to let Deeks screw things up. I'm going to Hawaii, I'm going to find my man and then I'm going to have a great time. An amazing time, because I can't work all day and night, can I? I might even get in some surfing. And I won't think of Deeks at all. Not one single solitary time. Why on earth would I?

A tannoy announcement says there's been a slight delay and we won't be boarding for another twenty minutes. I'm kind of thirsty, so I wander over to the bar and order a Jack Daniels on the rocks. I'm getting into the holiday spirit, that's all. It is most definitely not Dutch courage, because I'm really looking forward to this vacation. I need a break and this trip is costing me a fortune. But that's alright, because I'm worth it. The drink barely touches the sides of the glass before it's down my throat and the ice cubes are clattering against my teeth. So attractive – not. Who cares? Not me, so I order another one for good measure. After all, drinking doubles isn't classy. And I force all thought of Deeks out to the edges of my mind. I am not going to let Deeks ruin my vacation. In fact, I don't even know why I'm thinking about him in the first place.

And finally, there's another announcement that we can board the plane. I wander up to the departure gate, carry-on in one hand, tickets in the other.

"You can't take that on-board." One of the airline staff is blocking my way, pointing to my luggage, where the pretty streamers on the bottle are floating along merrily.

"It's just a bottle," I say, pulling forward my most charming smile. Only of course, it isn't just a bottle. It's much more than that. So much more. "And it was a present. A Christmas present. From a friend."

She's implacable, and the people behind me are growing restless, starting to shuffle their feet and mutter underneath their breath. "Ma'am – that bottle contains more than 3.4 ounces of liquid. And that means you can't take it on board without prior clearance at the checkpoint. It's against TSA regulations. You'll have to leave it here."

Boy, talk about being unreasonable. The spirit of Christmas sure passed her by. No way am I leaving that bottle behind. No way on earth. It's the principle of the matter, because clearly the bottle doesn't matter at all. I don't care a flying fig about that stupid bottle. "I'm a federal agent." Gone is all pretence or charm or reasonableness: I'm right in her face and I'm positively hissing.

"I don't care if you're the Queen of England. If you want to get on the plane, you leave the bottle right here."

Which is why ten minutes later I'm sitting in my car getting ready to drive back home. That was probably my shortest vacation ever and it's all Deeks' fault. I had important things to do and he's managed to ruin everything. Without even trying, which is pretty good going, even for Deeks. Next time I see him, I'm going to throw that stupid bottle at his head. That'll show him what I think of his Christmas present. Hopefully it might knock some sense into him. Before I start the car, I unscrew the cap one more time and inhale deeply. For some reason, that relaxes me and the way forward seems just a little bit clearer. I know exactly where I'm going, who I'm going to see and what I'm going to do. It's time someone taught Deeks a lesson about messing with other people's lives.

* * *

"Deeks?" The woman turns around and looks at me curiously. The soup kitchen is almost empty: everyone else has gone, and she is putting the finishing touches to a tray of sugar cookies.

"Deeks," I repeat as patiently as possible, because it's late and it's been a long day. Mind you, she looks as tired as I feel. "I was here last year with him? About six foot tall, long legs, blond hair – kind of shaggy – and blue eyes?"

Her face lights up. "Marty! You're talking about Marty, aren't you?" She moves forward and stands so close that I can smell the scent of powdered sugar that seems to float around her. Sure enough, there is a generous dusting of the stuff on her hands. "And you must be the one."

I'm the one? I'm Deeks' one? Really? Oh God help me, I've worked with Deeks for far too long because now I'm starting to talk like him. "I'm the one?" I say faintly, because my head is kind of swimming. It must be the effects of those two shots of Jack Daniels, because there's no other reason I should feel positively giddy.

"The one Marty was talking about earlier on - his work colleague. Kensi, isn't it? And you were here last year with Marty, weren't you?"

"That's right." Of course it is - I work with Deeks. That's all we are – work colleagues. Nothing more. "I'm Kensi," I say and stick out my hand, wondering what on earth I'm doing here - again. This is possibly my worst idea ever.

"I'm Angela. And it's lovely to see you here again, Kensi." She's still smiling, and there is something about the way she is smiling that unnerves me. This woman doesn't know me, she knows nothing about me, except the fact that I work with Deeks. So why is she looking at me as if she can read the innermost secrets of my heart?

"Is Deeks here?" What seemed like a certainty back at the airport now looks like a long-shot. Which is why I don't gamble, because my luck just plain sucks. You know how they say "lucky at cards: unlucky in love"? Well, you'd think the reverse should be true, only it isn't. I'm crap at both. Witness this fiasco if you don't believe me. Deeks should have been here. Why isn't he here? I was so sure he'd be here…

"I'm sorry, honey – you've missed him. And we're closing up now. But you can come back tomorrow, if you like. We always need helpers."

She looks so hopeful that my hard heart starts to melt a bit. Choices, choices. I've given up a vacation in glorious Hawaii to help out in a soup kitchen? What is my world coming to? Only, the thing is – I haven't exactly got anything else to do, have I? Or anyone else to be with. "Sure. I'll come. Why not? But I'll have to go by my office first."

"Anytime you can be here – we'll be ready for you."

"Is Deeks coming?" That doesn't sound too desperate, does it? No, please don't answer, because I really don't want to know.

"Of course he is. Marty always comes to help out." She looks at me shrewdly. "So, you've got nowhere to go either?"

How could she possible know that? And what does she mean "either"? Is Deeks between girlfriends for once? And surely he's spending Christmas with his mother and all those crazy relatives he told me about. Isn't he?

"I'll be here," I promise, and walk out slowly, listening to my heels clicking across the bare floor and trying not to think of the death march. What have I just got myself suckered into?

"Merry Christmas, honey." Her voice floats out across the room. "You'll feel better tomorrow when you pay it forward."

"Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too." Paying it forward? What on earth does Angela mean by that? And how does she manage to sound so happy? Who would actually chose to spend their Christmas helping out in a soup kitchen? I mean, I did last year, obviously, and even if it wasn't exactly my choice, it wasn't that bad. It was actually a lot of fun, in a strange kind of way. Only Deeks would think of taking you to a soup kitchen for your first date. Only it wasn't a date – of course it wasn't. And even if it was, we've never done it again. Not that we did anything. Except work together, servi up meals. That's all we ever do – work together. And flirt a little bit. The flirting is mostly on Deeks' part. Well, the verbal flirting at any rate. I can't deny that I sometimes wear my tightest jeans just to see the way his eyes light up like candles, or that I don't enjoy his reaction when we get all dressed up for an under-cover op. It would be pretty hard to miss Deeks' reaction – he's a big guy, after all. Not that I look. Okay, I look, but I make sure he doesn't see that I'm looking. Because Deeks has got a big enough head as it is. It matches the rest of him, if you get my drift. And the times I've patted him on the butt meant nothing. I think.

* * *

For once, the streets of LA are almost deserted as I drive home. It's the early hours of Christmas morning and everyone is safely tucked up in bed, dreaming of the day ahead. Except for me, obviously. It's kind of like being one of the only people left alive after a nuclear holocaust or something. Which is sort of how I feel inside – devastated. Because I've thrown away a great time in Hawaii and for what? Deeks wasn't even there when I went round to the soup kitchen. Not that it matters, of course. It's just that a small part of me wanted to see him so badly. A really, really small part. So small it hardly matters. Because Deeks doesn't matter to me. Not at all. He's my partner and that's it. Period. End of story. Signed, sealed and delivered, so help me God. And I need all the help I can get right now, because my life is crumbling all around me. This has to be the worst Christmas ever.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that I feel nothing for Deeks (well, nothing beyond the normal feelings of one work colleague to another) I might even start to believe it.

"You mean nothing to me, Deeks. Nothing at all." I'm chanting this as I drive, like some demented banshee and even I can hear how unconvincing I sound. But this only makes things worse, because of course I am thinking about Deeks every single time I say his name. I'm thinking about how, once upon a time and long, long ago, Deeks held his hands out to me and how I knew then that he would save me, bring me out of the laser trap in one piece. I'm thinking about how he held me close as we flew out in the storm of an explosion and how safe it felt to be in his arms. And that brings on another memory of being in his arms, because I remember how it felt when we danced together. Now, that might sound romantic, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Having Hetty, Sam and Callen all watching you is an incredible passion-killer for starters. And then there was the fact they kept offering comments, as if we were on _Dancing With The Stars_ or something, and the way Deeks kept standing on my feet, accidentally on purpose. But as I drive through the starlit night, for an instant I can feel the warmth of his hand upon my back and the way our fingers intertwined, and that's enough to stop my manic chanting makes me stop chanting and to start to hum a Viennese waltz instead. And as I do so, I remember holding Deeks in my arms, as he slumped down outside the hospital, having acted like the hero in some stupid macho movie. My hero, coming running to the rescue wearing only a pair of scrub pants and assorted bandages. I just held onto him then, scarcely able to believe we were both still alive.

Our minds can play tricks on us, especially when you're as tired as I am right now. That's the only reason I'm thinking like this: because I'm exhausted. That the only possible explanation for the fact that I can't get Deeks out of my head and it must be why I find myself driving past his apartment block, even though it's not on my route home. Actually, it's right out of my way, but no matter. I'm here now. I look along the street and for a brief moment I think I see this familiar dishevelled head of blond hair standing in the shadows of a shop doorway, but I must be imagining things. What possible reason could there be for Deeks to be talking to a tramp at this hour of the morning? It's time for me to go home and to go to bed.

That's easier said than done, because of course my bed is covered in a pile of clothes I considered and then discarded when I was packing for my abortive trip to Hawaii. Discarded – as in throwing anywhere and everywhere. My bedroom like a rummage sale gone mad. It occurs to me that the disorganised state of my home echoes my inner-state – the messed-up bundle of contradictions that is Kensi Marie Blye. Anybody who truly knew me would never fall in love me, far less want to stay with me. Just look at the evidence – my Dad died, Jack walked out me and since then Deeks is the only man I've let get anywhere close to me. And I keep pushing him away, because I'm too frightened to let him get close, to see the real me. I want Deeks – I want him right now. I want to stop being so damned lonely and start living again. Deeks is the only man I want to be with. I've known that for ages, only I've been denying it, frightened to admit it, even to myself.

Only that's not going to happen. I've not come this far to throw everything away now. I've spent too long uncovering all pieces that make up the tangled web of deceit that lead to my Dad's death and I'm getting closer to his killer every single day. I am not going to get distracted. And Deeks is so very distracting and so incredibly disarming… But the truth is that Deeks is a player who can turn the charm on at will. He flirts because he's Deeks, not because he actually feels anything. And he certainly doesn't feel anything for me. If he did, then he'd have let me in on that whole op with LAPD, instead of letting me go through hell, thinking that he'd killed an unarmed man. I could have killed him for that. I still might, if you must know.

"Just you wait, Deeks," I mutter balefully, throwing bundles of clothes onto the floor in random fashion and not caring where they land. "Just you wait till I get my hands on you."

Paying it forward – that's what Angela said. Huh – I'll make Deeks pay alright. .

* * *

_Hmm - Kensi's not too happy, is she? Evil plot bunny is twitching his whiskers in anticipation of Kensi getting her hands on Deeks. So is randy plot bunny, of course. I wonder who is going to win?_

_Tune in next week to find out more!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh my goodness - the bunnies and I are just blown away by all your wonderful reviews, along with the "favourites" and "follows". Thank you to everyone who is reading._

_Now, given that Kensi and Deeks need some straight-talking, who better to hear from that Hetty?_

* * *

_**Part 3: Hetty**_

There are times when I positively hate Christmas. The holiday seems to do something to normally sane people changing them beyond all recognition. It is such a hectic time of year, with people dashing about like demented rabbits on steroids, filling their arms with the latest pieces of consumer tat at vastly inflated prices, while simultaneously raising their blood pressure and depleting their bank balances in the process. I have begun to think that all this conspicuous consumerism is a form of collective madness that has been taken to extremes. Mass psychosis, if you will, although I really would prefer if you did not, if it is all the same. And then to discover a member of my own team had fallen prey to this… I thought he had more sense, I really did. Which just goes to show how little I know.

Now, while I managed to maintain my habitual persona of imperturbability, it was only with considerable effort. In truth, I was actually quite shocked to discover that the normally sensible Mr Hanna had fallen prey to the folly of promising his child a particularly vile piece of plastic nastiness pretending to masquerade as a pony. And then to see him demonstrate such fiscal imprudence in the foolish attempt to obtain an over-priced toy that patently has absolutely no educational value at all, far less offering anything in the way of stimulating play: well, words quite simply fail me. And it is not often that occurs, by the way. I think the last time I was struck dumb was when Bobby Ewing stepped out of the shower in _Dallas_ during the late 1980s, but given his rather fine physique, I am sure you will excuse me for that momentary lapse. Suffice to say that on this particular occasion I returned to my normal pithy self within seconds. And I was able to remedy the situation without requiring Mr Hanna to do something financially imprudent, such as re-mortgaging his house. I do not presume to know why Mr Beale was in possession of that ghastly toy in the first place, and felt it only right to suggest that Mr Hanna's need was greater than his own. I do feel that young Eric really needs to get out a little more often. Perhaps I should suggest he takes up a hobby that is rather better suited to an adult, and one which would also get him out into the fresh air at the same time? He can look a little pasty on occasion. Bird-watching strikes me as an ideal past-time for him. I'll make a note of that, and pass it my suggestion at an opportune moment. I'm sure he will be grateful for my concern.

It strikes me that parents today have forgotten the value of saying "no" to a child on occasion. Of course this is utter folly and only setting their offspring for a rather rude awakening when reality finally intrudes into their lives. Either that or it will encourages the little dears to pursue a career where money is in plentiful supply in return for little effort – such as drug dealing, or gun running, although admittedly the life-expectancy in those lines of work is rather limited. But I rather think Sam was propelled into making that particular purchase out of guilt.

I cannot help wondering what Mrs Hanna has made of recent events, or if she has even realised that Sam allowed his personal feelings to intrude during that whole sorry affair with Jada. And I choose my words wisely – for affair it was, whether or not consummated. Mr Hanna let his heart become entangled, and that is always dangerous. Not that it is any of my business, only I have been endowed with more than my fair share of curiosity and one of my few indulgences is to keep a close eye on my team. You might call it a maternal instinct: I could not possibly comment. But Sam is playing a dangerous game right now, one that could hurt him so much more than a knife to ribs ever could, because by maintaining this secrecy he is gambling with his family. And luck only lasts for a finite time. Nothing lasts for ever. Not even love. I found that out the hard way. Which is why I am sitting here, at work, on Christmas Day. I have no-one to be with and no place to be. I do not want my team to end up like this: I care too much about them. While they are not my family, they do occupy a special place in my heart – although I would rather rip it out with my bare hands than admit that. So I will thank you not to mention it again.

The small celebration on Christmas Eve was my way of thanking my team for all the sacrifices they make on a daily basis. And while Sam might have his difficulties at home, he also has the one thing his work-mates do not: namely a family. That is something I have never been able to achieve either, and it is my one abiding sadness, albeit one I keep concealed. We all have our secrets nevertheless, I must make time to have a meaningful little conversation with Mr Hanna next week, in order to pre-empt any future difficulties on the domestic front. I think something along the lines of "discretion may be the better part of valour, but you are being a bloody fool" should do the trick nicely. Either that or I may have to resort to a well-aimed kick up his rear. It is rather a tempting target, I must admit.

While I am at it, I'd better have a word with Mr Callen as well. It's high time he made a life for himself instead of living vicariously through Sam's family. It never seems to occur to him that the Hannas might want to spend time together alone together on the holidays without always having him sitting at their table, or even that Mrs Hanna might not always appreciate his omni-presence. She has little enough time alone with her husband as it is. Never having to share his life with anyone has left Mr Callen rather selfish, in that he is somewhat heedless of the impact of his actions upon others. He cannot continue hanging on his partner's coat-tails for ever, after all. It's not my style, but I am rather tempted to tell him to "get a life". Or perhaps I should rephrase that: "get your own life and butt the hell out of Sam's." It's high time Mr Callen made his own life, because he's not getting any younger.

And that brings me neatly to the two youngest members of the team. Kensi and Deeks. Now, if I were the sort of woman who interfered in other people's lives, then I would jolly well shove that pair into a room, lock the door behind them and tell them to jolly well get on with it. What a pity I am the epitome of restraint and rarely indulge my more basic instincts. However, one thing I have learned is never to say never. One simply doesn't know what is lurking in the shadows just around the corner, does one?

Call me a silly old romantic (if you dare), but I was rather hoping that my impromptu gathering on Christmas Eve might have instilled a little festive spirit into that pair. No, don't bother looking at me like that, because I am as partial to a kiss under the mistletoe as the next woman. Except if Leon Vance is in the vicinity. I have no desire to kiss a man who looks as if he is in the process of devouring a canapé. Or even a hedgehog. It is not a good look either way, and one which always seems rather unsanitary. It cannot have escaped your notice that the male members of my team are all rather fetching in appearance – can it? No, I thought not. I have my standards, you see – and I set the bar damned high. Regrettably, my plan to spread a little Christmas cheer fell flat on its face, as I had failed to factor in the possibility of Miss Blye jetting off to Hawaii for the holidays. For some reason, I had rather presumed she and Mr Deeks would spend Christmas day together. There's no fool like an old fool, is there? Please do not respond to that query, no matter how much you might want to. It will only end in tears before bed. And I won't be the one wringing out my hankie. You can believe me on that.

Covert affairs, internal affairs, international affairs – in my time, I've seen them all. I could write a book on my experiences, but it would have a very limited audience, due to the small matter of the level of security clearance required before reading. Either that, or I would simply have no option but to kill you afterwards, and that really can be rather messy. Therefore, you must simply take my word that I have indeed been there, done that and left the bullet holes to prove it. However, the one area in which my success-rate is not stellar concerns affairs of the heart. However, that does not mean that I cannot see what is staring me right in the face – namely that there is something going on between Kensi and Deeks. Something is definitely going on between them, but I struggle to work out exactly what it is. They are close – very obviously so – and there is a definite "spark" between them, but is there something more? Perhaps if I knew, then I could work out what to do about it. All I know is that something is very wrong and that I have no answers. And that disturbs me. Recognising your failings is all very well, but it's damned frustrating to feel so powerless.

All of the above is by way of explanation as to why this Christmas morning finds me sitting here at my desk in the Mission, staring at the private files I have complied on my team and trying to find some sort of answer. As a special indulgence, I allow myself a glass of Theakston's ale instead of my usual tea, but sadly it fails to provide any sort of clarity. There is only a skeleton staff on duty today, and they do me the courtesy of pretending not to notice that I am even here, far less that I am drinking. See no evil indeed… I go along with the charade, and pretend not to notice that they are pretending not to notice.

It makes no matter how long I stare at the pages: it availeth me naught. No magical solution appears. Bugger. I can think of absolutely nothing to do about this impasse. Rien. _Nada_. I can say "nothing" in a dozen different languages, but it doesn't make the situation any more palatable. _Merde_. Just as I am about to admit defeat, I become aware of footsteps, and looking up I see Mr Deeks coming strolling in to the Mission, accompanied by his dog. He catches my look and throws me a rueful glance.

"I couldn't leave him at home, Hetty. Not on Christmas day."

"Really?"

I raise one eyebrow quizzically while regarding him over the top of my spectacles. It took me an entire summer to learn how that little facial trick. I was eight years old and it was a long, wet and very boring summer where I had nothing better to do but stare in the mirror and contort my face. And children today whine if they are isolated from social media for more than ten minutes… they have no idea how bloody boring life used to be. Anyway, it took me a while, but by the end of August I had finally mastered the art and I have continued to put it to good use ever since. It is with no little pleasure that I note Mr Deeks looks somewhat taken aback at my purloining of his favourite phrase. But he hasn't trademarked it, after all, And if you can't beat them, then you might as well join them. When it comes to gamesmanship, I am master of all I survey. And then some.

Mr Deeks fixes a reproachful look on his face. "Well, I could have left him behind – I suppose. Only it wouldn't have been fair, would it?" He ambles up to my desk, with Monty trotting gamely at his side.

"Are you trying to tell me that Monty knows it is Christmas Day, Mr Deeks?" Hearing his name, the dog wags his tail happily and nearly sends a rather decent piece of _famille rose_ porcelain flying in the process.

"Well, not exactly," Mr Deeks admits ingenuously." But he definitely knows something's up." The young man stands meekly at the side of my desk with downcast eyes, looking for all the world like a little boy who has been caught performing some minor transgression chastised and is now using all his charm to try to wriggle out of a punishment. I have to admit that I am not entirely immune to this ploy, but I steel my heart.

"Not at all, Mr Deeks. He's a dog."

"He's a dog," my liaison officer echoes. "And that's Theakston's , isn't it?"

His eyes, when they meet mine, are sparkling with mischief, but the look sits oddly on a face that is uncharacteristically tired and drawn. It occurs to me that Mr Deeks is somewhat lacking in the _joie de vivre_ department today. I do hope he isn't coming down with something. Perhaps a glass of ale might have some restorative qualities?

"Can I offer you a small refreshment?" Well, it is Christmas after all.

"I thought you'd never ask." Hooking a chair neatly with one foot, Mr Deeks sits down and watches as I pour the dark liquid into a tall glass. There is an art to pouring English ales that once learnt is never quite forgotten. I learnt this skill during a sojourn at the Dirty Duck in Stratford upon Avon, where I masqueraded as a barmaid called Clarrie. Dear Larry was rather taken with my prowess. Such a lovely man and most complimentary about my attempts as Beatrice to his Benedict. But I digress…

"So?" Once again I raise my eyebrow quizzically. I believe in getting my money's worth out of things, even facial gestures.

"So what?" He mirrors my gesture insolently and then leans back casually in his chair. Cheeky! Just because this is Christmas there is no need to take liberties. But I'll let him away with it, just this once. It has nothing to do with his boyish charms, nothing at all. Think of it as my Christmas present to a deserving soul. After all, I have a sneaking suspicion that right now Mr Deeks needs all the help he can get.

"So why aren't you helping out at the soup kitchen?" I enquire mildly.

That shocks him rigid. In fact, so great is his shock that the chair almost topples over backwards. Luckily the ale does not sully my Aubusson carpet, or I would have had his guts for garters – Christmas or no Christmas.

"How do you know that?" he demands, once he's recovered his breath.

"Sometimes, it behoves one to watch the wall." That gets me a blank look in return. What do they teach young people in schools these days? "Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie," I quote, and then take pity on him. Well, I was taught to always be kind to dumb animals, after all. "It's a line from a poem, Mr Deeks. _A Smuggler's Song_, by Rudyard Kipling."

The name seems to ring a bell with him, for a broad smile creeps across his face. "So, do you like Kipling, Hetty?"

As if I'm going to fall for that old chestnut. I wasn't born yesterday, as is sadly only too apparent. "I don't know, Mr Deeks," I say crisply. "I've never Kipled."

Honours even, we regard one another gravelly, and then raise our glasses in a mutual toast. I do so love a little verbal jousting and it looks as if Mr Deeks might just prove to be a worthy opponent one day, with a little judicious training from yours truly, of course. Which is one more reason to try to sort out this tangled mess that is snarling up his relationship with Miss Blye. I had never thought to find myself cast in the role of Cupid, but one lives and one learns.

"About Miss Blye," I start, being a firm believer in striking while the iron is hot.

It is as if a shutter falls down over his face, so that Mr Deek's normally open countenance becomes closed and guarded. "What about her?" he replies stonily, just as the subject of our conversation walks in. What was I just saying about my wonderful sense of timing? It's all shot to hell. This could hardly be worse.

"Yes, what about me, Hetty?" Kensi has what can only be described as a challenging expression on her face.

Bugger. This place is getting like Grand Central Station and my timing is shot to hell. I blame it on the Theakstons and the fact I'm old enough to know better than to drink English ale on an empty stomach.

"How nice to see you, my dear. And, Merry Christmas." I might be getting on a bit, but I can still make a lightening recovery.

"Yeah. Merry Christmas."

I've scarcely heard a less jovial greeting, but decide to ignore that, much in the same was as my two agents are studiously avoiding acknowledging one another's presence. Double bugger. The atmosphere is so fraught that Monty gives an anxious whimper and Miss Blye's head whips around so fast she is in danger of giving herself whiplash.

"What's he doing here?"

"It's Christmas," I say as gently as possible and reach down to pat Monty on the head. He really is a very sensitive animal.

"I was talking about Deeks," Kensi snaps.

The object of her disdain slams his glass down on the table, spilling Theakston's everywhere and I only just manage to smother a retort about the ring-mark it is going to leave on my beautiful desk. _Patience, Hetty_, I counsel myself inwardly. It is a struggle not to knock their heads together, but somehow I manage to desist.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Hawaii right now?" His voice is colder than I have ever heard it.

"I'm not in Hawaii. I'm here." Belligerent is not the word to describe Miss Blye's tone, but it will do for now.

"Really?" It is quite remarkable the layers of nuance Mr Deeks manages to imbue that single two-syllable word with. Remarkable – but rather unpleasant for the listener.

I feel like hitting my head off the desk, but that would hardly help matters, although it would have a certain dramatic potential. "Stop this right now. Both of you." My normally well-modulated tones sound rather shrill, but could possible blame me?

They look at me, for all the world as if they are two aggrieved children and I am their teacher. Or even their mother.

"But Hetty…" It is a twin chorus of protest.

For a woman whose patience is legendary, this is the moment when mine is tested beyond endurance – and when I give into my impulses.

"Not another word from either of you. I have got better things to do than to than to sit here and listen to you two bicker. You have to work together. More than that, you have to trust one another – implicitly. So, although I have better things to do with my time, we're all going to stay right here until you sort out your problems once and for all."

I give them my Medusa glare. If good deeds never go unrewarded, then I am sure to get my reward in heaven, if not sooner. And besides, it is blindingly obvious that there is something going on between this pair. Blindingly obvious to everyone, except the two most concerned. Talk about love being blind. Or lust. In my experience, there is often very little difference between the two, although one is normally shorter in duration than the other, and rather more easily fulfilled. Whatever, as I believe young people say. As far as I am concerned it is time for Kensi and Deeks to finally face up to both reality and their feelings. High time, if you ask me. Enough is enough. I am going to force them to acknowledge how they feel. Whether they like it or not.

"I don't have a problem," Kensi protests, somewhat unconvincingly, it must be admitted.

Deeks favours me with a decidedly sulky expression. "Me neither."

I am sorely tempted to ask them to tell that one to the Marines, but I refrain, albeit with some difficulty.

"Well now, isn't that just dandy?" I retort, doing my best not to sound too sarcastic. I am not entirely sure that I am successful, but these are trying times, so give me the benefit of the doubt. "So how come I don't believe you?"

Mutually hostile glares are all the response I get. Desperate times call for desperate measures. "Do I have to make you dance together again? Or are you prepared to sit down and talk about this like adults?"

The mere mention of dancing makes Mr Deeks shudder and he hastily reconsiders his somewhat petulant attitude. "Merry Christmas, Kensi. I'm glad you're here and not in Hawaii." I must say that he manages to sound remarkably sincere.

The effect of that remark upon Kensi is quite astonishing. "I really wanted to go to Hawaii," she says miserably and then sits down beside him, head bowed and all the aggression gone in an instant.

"So why didn't you?" he asks, in a tone that suggests he does not quite dare to believe what he is hearing.

Neither do I, if it comes to that. I am quite aware of what Miss Blye gets up to on her time off-duty, and I'm positive this is connected to her search. I just hope that one day she will see fit to confide in me. After all, I just might be able to proffer some assistance – or even just an understanding ear to confide in. These quests for vengeance are so stressful. And I speak from personal experience. They can sap your soul, so that you lose sight of everything except the quest for your quarry. I do not want Miss Blye to make the mistakes that I made, or to end up so alone that she voluntarily comes in to work on Christmas Day.

"I was right there at the airport, and I was, just about to board the plane and… and then I just couldn't okay?" She raises her head and gives him a pleading glance.

"Okay."

There is such complete and utter acceptance in Mr Deeks' voice that it makes me feel as if I am intruding. In the next instance, they exchange a long look that is full of raw longing and that makes my heart ache just to see it passing between them. At this stage I feel it is expedient to drop my gaze and pretend to study my fingernails. Not that they notice, being otherwise occupied.

"It was your present," Kensi's voice is very low and her eyes drop to the ground. "They wouldn't let me take your present on board the plane and I wasn't about to leave it behind."

"Okay."

It strikes me that Mr Deeks' vocabulary seems to have become restricted to one word. And then he seems to the power to speak at all. His fingers intertwine with one another, and then untangle themselves, only to begin the whole process over again, as he watches with seeming fascination that doesn't fool me for an instant. There is a long pause before he finally manages to find his tongue. "But you should have gone. It was only some lotion."

The chair screeches across the floor, as Kensi moves closer to him, so close that their legs are touching and I find myself forgetting to breath. "That's not the point. I didn't want to leave it." Her voice is trembling and she hitches in a long, ragged breath before continuing. "And I realised I didn't want to leave you either."

And then Kensi does something unthinkable: she leans forward and buries her face in her hands.

Oh bugger, times three. Sometimes paying it forward is a real bitch. I never saw that one coming. Bugger to infinity and beyond. And then some.

* * *

_Well, well, well. So even Hetty's plans can go awry._

_Slushy plot bunny is hiding underneath the Christmas tree and quivering. I just hope he's not chewed through the power cord for the lights..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Things are begining to reach a climax..._

_**Part 4: various voices**_

_**Hetty**_

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man normally in possession of his senses goes to pieces when in the presence of a woman giving vent to her emotions. Not that God granted men as much common sense as women, of course – but that is another matter and not for discussion at this time. Sadly, I can report that both Mr Deeks and Monty react in a typically masculine fashion to Miss Blye's uncharacteristic outburst, which is to say that they demonstrate that peculiar brand of ineptness known only to men and do nothing. To be more precise, both man and dog just sit stock still, with matching pussy-struck expressions of horror on their faces. How absolutely typical.

Clearly, some outside interference is required, and as they are too far away for a swift kick in the shins, I have no option but to favour them with another of my extensive repertoire of justly-famous stares. _(Note to self: obtain hockey stick forthwith and keep in immediate vicinity at all times to avoid being similarly constrained in the future.) _I select the one that says "Do something. And do it now, before there is blood for breakfast". Let me assure you that the blood will not be mine. You will no doubt be as relieved as I ms to know my glare has to have the desired effect, because they both spring into action: Mr Deeks reaches out a nervous hand and pats Kensi on the shoulder, while Monty goes one better and licks her face. On the whole, I think I prefer Monty's approach, for however gauche (not to mention wet) it might be, there is an element of charming spontaneity about it. Perhaps Mr Deeks might do well to take a leaf out of his book?

"Kensi?" His voice is soft and low, almost husky, one might say, and there is a tenor in it that I have never heard before. Just for a brief moment I let myself imagine a man speaking to me in that tone of voice and it is a good thing that I have remained seated throughout this encounter, because I am almost certain that my knees are trembling. I really have no idea why I am behaving in this way.

There is no response. Kensi refuses to look up and her hair has fallen down on either side of her face, shielding it further from view.

"Kensi?"

Is it my imagination, or is there a slight tone of desperation in Mr Deeks' voice? Like me, he has never seen Kensi react in this way before and it is most disconcerting. I feel quite uncomfortable, but that might be because I am holding my breath and suddenly find my lungs are screaming for oxygen. It must be the ale that is causing my habitual _sang froid_ to desert me, because I can think of no logical reason why I should be so affected. And you can quote me on that.

And finally, just as I am convinced he is frozen to the spot, Mr Deeks moves, putting his arm around Kensi's shoulder and pulling in close, so that her head is resting on his shoulder. She reacts instinctively, wrapping her arms around him, moving her head to that it tucks in under his chin. There is no need for further words, as they remain locked in an embrace, two bodies fitting perfectly together. I have often been praised for my impeccable sense of timing: I know when to make an entrance and I also know when my presence is no longer required. This is definitely one of those times. My work is done and there is no need for me to be here. Gesturing to Monty, we make our escape, leaving the young people to come to their senses.

Outside, the air is unseasonably warm and still, the sunshine concentrated by the white-painted walls of the inner courtyard of the Mission that has become my private sanctuary at times of stress. Despite long years of residence in California, I still cannot help thinking that Christmas should be crisp and cold, preferably with a generous dusting of snow. Mulled wine and mince pies are best enjoyed around a roaring fire, after all. But despite everything, I can feel the spirit of the season enveloping me, like a well-loved quilt being slipped around my body: soft, familiar and entirely welcome.

"Merry Christmas, Monty," I whisper and the dog rolls his eyes at me and then wanders over and gives the gnarled olive tree that lies at the centre of the courtyard a thorough watering. From the sublime to the ridiculous, indeed. It strikes me that I haven't drunk nearly enough. Of course, there is an ample sufficiency of Theakstons inside. The only problem is that Kensi and Deeks are there too and I really don't want to disturb them.

Bugger. I really do need to plan things a little better next year.

"Why aren't you a St Bernard with a barrel of brandy around your neck?" I enquire of Monty.

He gives me an uncompromising look and then scratches himself thoroughly. If he has left fleas on my carpet I will have a bone to pick with Mr Deeks, true love notwithstanding. Ah well, there are worse things to do on a bright Christmas morning than to sit in the sunlight, and there are worse companions to have. I'd kill for another beer though.

* * *

_**Kensi**_

"I'm glad you're here," Deeks whispers into my ear, in a way that sets my skin alive. "I'm glad you're here and not in Hawaii. Really glad. It makes this the best Christmas ever."

"But I didn't get you a present," I say, sounding completely pathetic and unlike myself.

Sometimes I spend so much time kicking ass and acting tough that I forget who I am deep down inside. And no matter how hard I try to hide it, the fact is that the inner me is as tough as marshmallow. My dad knew that… but then I could never hide anything from him. He knew everything about me. I've never let another man get as close as that again, because losing my dad was the worst thing ever. I made a mistake letting Jack into my life – but he never knew the real me: I was too scared to let him get that close. But I still hurt when he left – I still felt like my world had fallen down around my feet and that it was all my fault. Since then, I've guarded my emotions, too afraid to let anyone ever get close to me again, in case they leave me. I don't think I could stand to be hurt again.

The thing is that I find I am tired of hiding my heart. And more than that, I am tired of being alone. I just want to be wanted. And I want Deeks too. I want Deeks and I need him. I just need him so much that it physically hurts. I've never needed anything or anyone quite so much in my whole life. My throat aches with the effort of choking down my tears and my head is pounding fit to burst. I don't know why I am so hung up about the fact I didn't get Deeks a present.

No. That's a lie. I know exactly why that bothers me so much – it was the look in his eyes. I can't forget the way Deeks looked me yesterday – his gaze was first full of hope and I just dashed that all away, so that it was replaced by this sorrow and most of all this incredible loneliness in his eyes that just made me feel hollow inside. With one look he managed to strip everything away from me, leaving me empty inside. I never knew I could hurt someone so much. That's what I can't forget. Every time I closed my eyes last night I saw Deeks and that look in his eyes that seemed to say I had destroyed him and the guilt was eating me up.

Somehow I manage to summon up all my courage and lift my head to look at Deeks and I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. There's that familiar look in his eyes – the one I saw before. The look that is full of expectancy, like he's just waiting for me to let him into my life. I know in an instant that this is what I've been waiting for and that Deeks is the one I've been looking for. And that blows away the very last vestiges of fear so that I finally pluck up the courage to allow myself to do the one thing I've been longing to do for so long – I let myself fall into his arms. Miracle of miracles, Deeks' arms enfold me and I finally feel like I've come home, after far too long an absence.

"But I've got you, Kensi. I've got everything I ever wanted." Deeks is so sincere and he makes it all sound so simple.

And he's right: it is simple. It is so very simple to move even closer so that I'm sitting on his knee, in fact. I'm sitting turned around so that I'm facing him and Deeks is kissing away my tears.

"Don't cry, Kensi. I can't bear to see you crying."

"I'm only crying because I'm happy."

It's true. I feel like my heart is going to burst with happiness. And then my hands are on either side of his face and I'm kissing him, like I've kissed him a hundred times in my dreams. Only the reality is so much better. The reality is kind of mind-blowing, if you want the truth. And the best bit about it? Deeks is kissing me back. He's kissing me like yesterday, today and tomorrow are all rolled into one so that there is no going back. How could I not love a man who kisses like that? And who needs Hawaii anyway? Although Deeks and Hawaii would be an awesome combination of sun, surf and sex. No, wait a minute – I can have all that right here. All that and more. Because right now it feels like anything is possible.

Sitting with Deeks' arms around me (and why haven't I noticed what great arms he has before? Strong and well-muscled, and with the cutest golden hairs on them. Maybe I've been too focused on his amazing butt? It makes me wonder what else I've overlooked about Deeks – and what there is in store for me to discover…) I realise that for the first time in a long, long time I feel whole again. Possibly for the first time since Jack walked out. I've been looking for someone to share my life with for so long. The hunt for my dad's killer has kept me pre-occupied, but not that occupied. I've still had time to be lonely – too much time. It strikes me that we are alike in that, Deeks and I – both essentially gregarious people, who find themselves alone when it really matters. Only now we've found each other, when we didn't even realise we'd been looking.

"I went looking for you last night," I confess.

"You did?" His arms tighten around me, and his voice is coloured with disbelief. It's as if nobody has cared enough to do that for a long time.

"Uh huh. At the soup kitchen. But you'd already left." I try not to let the lingering disappointment I still feel over that come out as I speak, but it's too raw and green.

"Funny, because all the time I was there, I kept looking out for you. I kept thinking that you'd come."

"I did come. Only I was too late."

"You've got me now. And I've got you and I'm never going to let you go."

That sounds perfect to me. There's nothing I want more. For a moment, I wonder why Deeks goes to the soup kitchen each Christmas, year after year. There must be a reason. Maybe one day I'll ask him about it. Maybe one day I'll tell him about my Dad. I might even tell him about my Mom – but not today. There will be time for all that. Right now, I just want to enjoy being with him.

* * *

**Angela**

I knew. I knew the moment I saw them together last Christmas: this was the girl Marty had told me about. She was "the one", according to him. Now, when he'd said that, I didn't say anything – of course I didn't. I just let him talk, telling me all about Kensi while I watched the way his whole face lit up as he spoke about her and I felt my heart start to lift up. It's been a long time coming, but Marty deserves someone of his own. I've tried my best, but he was always looking for something else – or more accurately, for someone else. Right from the first moment I met him, that was always the case. I've never seen a child more in need of love and attention. And I've fostered over thirty children in my time, so you can trust my judgement. But for some reason, Marty was always special to me. Maybe because he was the one who stayed with me the longest – and still stays in my heart today. Or maybe it's because we met on Christmas Eve, over twenty years ago…

* * *

"_Mrs Deeks – Angela – you know I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."_

_I'd known Jarvis Allen for ten years, and as social workers go, he was one of the best. He wouldn't spin me a line, I knew that. It had to be bad if Jarvis was standing here in my living room on Christmas Eve, practically begging me to take in another child in danger. Still, I wasn't ready to take on another child – and certainly not at such short notice. Each time one of my boys or girls left, there was a lingering sadness, an emptiness in the house and in my heart. Annie had left two weeks before and I was still at the stage of missing her desperately. It was like I was mourning and I just wasn't ready to go through all that again. Besides, it was Christmas Eve and I was up to my eyes in preparations, and the bed in the spare room (Annie's bed) hadn't been made up with fresh sheets…oh, there was a hundred reasons I wasn't about to give in to all Jarvis' wheedling._

"_This kid needs a home for Christmas. And you're the only person who can give him what he needs." Jarvis always was good at flattery. "This boy needs you, Angela."_

"_And what exactly might that be?" I asked tartly. I wasn't about to buy a pig in a poke, you see._

_Jarvis looked me dead in the eyes. "Love. And understanding. And patience. This kid's been through a lot and he doesn't need to go through the system as well. You're his last chance. It's not too late for him – not yet. He's a good kid, but he's been through a tough time. He needs someone like you in his life to set him on the right path."_

"_How old is he?" I kept my arms firmly crossed, hugging my chest, because I didn't want Jarvis to think I was weakening. _

"_Eleven."_

_Well, that was all he needed to say. Just a boy. Who could reject a child that young – and on Christmas Eve, of all days? Not me, that's for sure. Of course, Jarvis knew that. Which was why he had the boy sitting out there, just waiting in the car and with a suitcase sitting right beside him. Sly like a fox, that's Jarvis. I still see him, you know. He usually comes in here in the afternoon, when all the hard work's done, as I like to tell him. Of course, he's not getting any younger. Neither am I, of course._

_Anyway, that was how I met Marty Deeks, only of course he was called Marty Brandel in those days. He started calling himself Deeks about a year after he moved in with us, and he changed his surname as soon as he was legally able to. I was so proud that day – and Marty's continued to make me proud every day since, even if he does drive me half-mad with worry. Why couldn't he just have stuck with that nice, safe job as a lawyer? But then Marty never did things the easy way – it was always his way or the high way. Stubborn isn't the word for that boy. But he met his match in me. Or so I thought…_

"_My name is Angela," I announced, looking at the scrawny little boy, with a shock of hair so fair it verged on white and blue eyes that were round with trepidation. He didn't look eleven – he looked a whole lot younger. Until you looked into his eyes. And then you realised this child had seen far too much._

"_I'm Marty," he mumbled, and then held out a hand, with fingernails gnawed halfway up to his elbows._

_I'm a pretty good judge of character, and this didn't look like a boy who'd shot his own father out of malice – this looked like a child who was scared half out of his wits. There was just something about Marty that day – the way he stood there, looking like a dog that's been kicked so many times it just accepts pain as its due – that made my heart go out to him. No child should ever have the far-seeing look in his eyes that I saw in my Marty's that day. I wanted to take him into my arms and give him the biggest hug, only I didn't. He had to learn to trust me first, to find out that I wasn't going to hurt him. It took a while, but gradually he opened his heart. Me? well, I fell in love with Marty the day we met, and that's the truth. He just needed to be loved so badly, and I had all this love to give, all stored up and just waiting for the right person to give it to._

* * *

Oh yes, that boy took hold of my heart and he's kept it in the palm of his hand ever since. I never had a baby born to me, and I've cried more tears about that over the years than you could ever imagine. Behind closed doors, of course. I never said much about it, not even to my husband, but I felt empty inside, like I wasn't a real woman or something. And then Marty came into my life, and he needed me in ways I could never have imagined. That boy helped to make me whole again. The truth is that I needed him just as much as he needed me. But now it's time for him to move on and make a new life for himself.

I've got high hopes that Kensi is the person Marty's been looking for. He brought her here to help out last year, after all, and he's never done that with a girl before. That has to count for something, doesn't it? Kensi came back this year, and that has to mean something too, doesn't it? Even if it was too late. You know, I was so tempted to phone Marty last night and tell him that Kensi was looking for him, but that would have been interfering. Some things have to just work themselves out. If it's going to happen, then it will happen. That's what my husband, Bill, always says. Which is kind of strange, seeing how Bill loses too much money betting on the ponies, but nobody's perfect, after all. And there aren't too many men who put up with a string of children landing on their doorstep, each with their own problems. So I just count my blessings and try not to interfere too much.

The thing is, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe last night I said a bit more to Kensi than I should have. I called her "the one", because that's who she is, in my mind at least. I could have bitten my tongue off the moment I said it. The thing is that when I said that, there was this look came over Kensi's face, so that she looked like someone who's just won the lottery or something. Only supposing I got it wrong? That thought sat uncomfortably and I hardly got a wink of sleep last night.

Truth be told, I am still worrying about my big mouth when Bill drops me off at the soup kitchen this morning, before he takes his mother for her traditional Christmas visit to the cemetery. Yes, you heard me right. Doris sure does know how to put the dampers on any celebration, that's for sure. For years I had to go along too, so when the call came out for volunteers to work here, preparing and serving meals to the homeless, you can bet I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Anything to avoid yet another trip to "my dear departed James' grave", as Myrtle insists on calling it, in these doom-laden tones that would wipe the smile off anybody's face. Her "dear James" indeed. Don't make me laugh. They'd been at loggerheads almost from the day they married and hadn't spoken to each other for at least ten years before James died. And that made for some interesting family meals, I can tell you. I used consider serving up Pepto-Bismol with the dessert course, that's how bad it was. Anyway, the year Marty came to live with us, I wasn't going to subject him to a day with Doris Deeks, so I brought him here with me – and it's been our tradition ever since.

But this morning, there is no sign of Marty – or of Kensi. And my heart just clenches up inside of me. All I want is for my boy to be happy and to find someone of his own. That's not too much to ask for, is it? It's a good thing I'm here, with plenty of work to do and to keep me occupied, because otherwise I'd be fretting.

I don't want much for Christmas. All I want is for my boy to be happy. I want that more than anything. Marty's a good man and he deserves to be happy. He deserves to have someone of his own and to build his own life – he's waited a long time for that. Oh, I know all about the girls, of course I do. A good looking man like Marty isn't going to be left alone for long, after all. It wouldn't be right. I wasn't born yesterday, as you can probably tell just by looking at me. So, there were girls – lots of girls. So what? I'd have been worried if there weren't, to be honest. I never asked for details, of course, and Marty never volunteered any, just like he never brought any of them home to meet me. Until last Christmas Eve, when he turned up here at the soup kitchen with Kensi. Of course, he'd told me about her, but he just made out that they worked together, but I knew. I knew the moment I saw them together that she was the one, the one he'd been looking for all these years. A mother always knows these things.

But now I'm getting worried, because it's gone eleven and there is still no sign of Marty. Oh Lord, I hope I haven't gone and ruined everything…

"Angela!"

There is no mistaking that voice – or the figure that strides across the kitchen to take me in his arms and my heart leaps with joy. My Marty has grown tall and strong, and he's a good looking boy any mother would be proud of. It would be nice to know where his own mother is, but she hightailed it that night Brandel was shot and she hasn't been heard of since. So Marty stayed with me and Bill, and we did our best by him. Now, some people might think that I'm the one who's given a lot for not very much in return, but that's not true. Our pastor gave us a sermon last week about paying it forward and as I listened, I realised that I was the one who has benefited the most from taking Marty in that day, no doubt about it. He just completed me and gave my life a new purpose.

When Marty eventually lets me go, I take a good look at him and I can see that he looks different. So does Kensi, who is standing close beside him. Last night, she was subdued but today it's as if she's all lit up inside. And she can't stop looking at Marty, standing there beside her and holding onto his hand as if she'll never let it go. And Marty? Well, he just looks like all his Christmases have come at once. I couldn't ask for a better present.

I don't say that, of course. Instead I just hand them each a potato peeler, point them in the direction of the vegetable preparation area and tell them to get on with it. Marty smirks in that way he has and Kensi swats him on the butt. I think she's going to be just perfect for him. A mother always knows, you see – whether her son was born to her, given to her by God or just plain turns up on her doorstep one Christmas Eve. It doesn't make any difference where your child comes from – you just love them, hurt for them and you damned well hope and pray they will be happy. Well, today the Good Lord has answered all my prayers today – and then some.

* * *

_Slushy plot bunny insists that there has to be a fifth part to this story. And he is pleading with me to finish this story before Christmas..._


	5. Chapter 5

_I promised I would have this completed before Christmas! talk about impeccable timing..._

_Anyway, this ends as it began - with Deeks._

* * *

**Part Five - Deeks**

So, once again I am spending Christmas Day here in the soup kitchen, peeling potatoes. And, just like last year, Kensi is right by my side. Yet everything is different today. For a start, we're standing so close that our hips are nudging together, and every so often Kensi leans into me, or I lean into her and our eyes meet and we exchange smiles and looks that are so full of promise I fell as if my heart might just burst. It's funny how things can change so quickly. Not that I'm complaining, of course, quite the reverse. The only problem is that there are whole lot of things I want to say to Kensi and even more things that I want to do with her – but this isn't the time or the place. I wish we were alone somewhere…

The things is, every time I look up, I can see there are more people coming in, looking for somewhere they can get a decent meal and a bit of company, so it's not like we can just walk out, is it? Not without feeling like skunks. We've got so much and today means a lot to our clients. For some of them this is the best day of the year – food, warmth and company. So the best we can do is to push down all the feelings that are churning around inside, put our heads close together, and talk quietly, while all the time we peel more vegetables, chop them up and put them into pots, which are then whisked over to the stoves. And then my right hand is seized and held in a firm grip.

"I'm glad to see you stopped biting your nails, Marty."

"Only because you threatened to put nail polish on them." The way Angela talks, you'd think this was just last week or something – not twenty years ago. How come she can make me feel like a little kid again?

"I'm glad too." Kensi reaches forward and takes hold of my other hand. "I've always liked your hands – they're strong, but flexible. Like an artist's." With that, she looks up, gives me this dreamy smile and all of a sudden, I don't feel like a little kid any more. Oh no, I feel like a big boy. A very big boy indeed. I also feel that I want to get out of here right now. If I don't get out of here soon, I might just do something stupid. It's either that or I explode with frustration

Luckily, Angela is impervious to the way I'm feeling right now, and goes straight into proud mother hen mode. "Did you know Marty used to play the violin, Kensi?"

Oh great, now they're talking about me like I'm not here. I'm surrounded by women who are ganging up on me and giving away all my secrets. And the strangest thing is that I don't mind at all. In fact, I actually like it. I'm sandwiched in between the two women I love most in the world and it feels great.

"I think he might have mentioned it – once." She gives a singular smile.

Ah yes, I forgot about that one day, when I wasn't thinking and was rather distracted, I let it slip out that I used to play the violin in the dim and distant past. I regretted it immediately, but it was just a casual mention, and neither of us said any more about it, so I was sure Kensi had forgotten all about it. Only it seems that Kensi never forgets. I'm beginning to wonder what else Kensi has got filed away in her mind and I'm looking forward to finding out, very slowly and in exquisite detail. I want to find out all her secrets, everything that she hides from the world. I want to know every inch of her body too.

Kensi and Angela exchange knowing looks, and that's when I know I'm in trouble. If these two start working in tandem, then I'm in big trouble. There's no way I can resist both of them. Just as I'm getting ready to go on the defensive, Angela takes the wind right out of my sails. She was always good at that, but today Angela proves her complete mastery of me. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.

"Marty –I need you to do me a favour."

"Anything." I mean it. I honestly can't refuse this woman a single thing. She took me in and gave me a second chance at life. Angela believed in me when just about everybody else had given up hope, and she made me believe in myself. But there is no way that I am prepared for what she says next.

"I want you to promise me that you won't come here next year."

Her hands are gripping on to mine tightly, and when I look down for the first time I see the unmistakeable signs of age are written upon them. When did Angela start to get old? And just a little bit of the sparkle of the day starts to fade.

"Come on – this is our tradition. I'll always be here. You do know that, don't you?"

She shakes her head, and I can see there are grey hairs among the dark curls. I don't want Angela to get old, I want her to always stay the same and to always be in my life. For this first time, I realise how much I still need her. "It's time, Marty. It's time for you to move on and make a new life. I've given you a start, but now I need to let you go. You've never lived in the past, so don't start now."

"I'll always be here for you – you do know that, right?" I know I'm repeating myself, but I need to make sure she knows how much I love her. Only it's hard to speak, because there is this huge lump in my throat.

Angela gives me the sweetest smile and all of a sudden I am catapulted back in time to a Christmas Eve long ago, when I thought my whole world had come crashing down around my ears, and then I saw this woman literally holding out her arms, with her warm smile and her big heart just pulling me forward. I knew that I would be safe with her and that I could trust her. "I know, son – I know. Just like you know that you'll always be in my heart. But I reckon you've done more than your share of paying it forward. So next year, you take Kensi away somewhere nice for Christmas. Just the two of you. Promise me?"

I can't actually say anything right now, so I just nod. Kensi steps into the silence.

"And I promise to make sure he does"

How come Kensi knows I am going to be putty in her hands – hers to do with as she pleases? Not that I'm bothered or even that I will protest in the slightest

"You know I'll miss you, right? You and the soup kitchen."

"I know. And it's not like we're never going to see one another again, is it? But it's time, Marty. Time for you to make a new tradition for Christmas. Nothing lasts forever." Angela smiles at me, and gives my hand one last squeeze and then reverts to her normal sassy self. "Now – get back to work. Those potatoes aren't going to peel themselves."

Someone smacks my butt at this point. It could be Kensi, or it could be Angela. And much as I love Angela, I'm rather hoping it's Kensi.

So that's settled. Maybe we could get a cabin up at Tahoe, and go skiing all day and then lie back in a hot tub and stare up at the stars in the evening? Or maybe we'll go to Hawaii together. Anything is possible, after all.

"Next year, then? You and me, Kensi? Anywhere but LA?"

"Any time. Any place. Anywhere."

It should be a really romantic moment, despite the unglamorous surrounding, because it's almost like Kensi is promising me a future. We're standing there, looking at each other and trying to find words to say all the things we feel when this terribly familiar voice breaks in.

"That is presuming you are not scheduled to be on duty, of course."

I totally did not see her coming. Once again Hetty seems to have just appeared out of thin air. One of these days I am going to grab hold of her and make her tell me how she does it. But not today. Today I'd much rather just hold onto Kensi. Part of me still can't quite believe this is happening, despite the way Hetty's interjection has brought me plummeting back down to earth.

"You must be Hetty," Angela says confidently. I guess I must have mentioned Hetty once or twice, just in passing.

"I suppose I must be," she agrees. I always feel a bit wary when Hetty acts so pleasantly, like I'm just waiting for the steel jaws of a trap to snap shut around me.

"It's lovely to meet you at last. Marty's told me all about you."

Now, I love Angela dearly, but she really learns when to keep her mouth shut. Because things were going so well… I try very hard not to cringe, and try not to think about what she might say next.

"Really?" Hetty quirks that eyebrow up again, while the rest of her face stays completely immobile and expressionless. I feel my heart sinking into my boots. "And you must be Angela. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

_Note to self – remember just to assume that Hetty knows absolutely everything and that you can never keep any secrets from her. It's easier that way. _

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Hetty." I feel like some token gesture is called for on my part.

She looks at me and then shakes her head. "And yet I'm here, aren't I? Is love making you blind, Mr Deeks?"

Well, there's no answer to that, is there? Mainly because I've only got eyes for Kensi.

"There was the small matter of your animal," Hetty continues. "Didn't you notice you'd left him behind?" Right on cue, Monty slinks around from behind her. For some reason he is wearing an elf costume and looks suitably mortified.

"Monty!" He bounds up to me and then sits down at my feet, throwing the most pathetic look you have ever seen.

God, he knows how to make me feel rotten. How could I have forgotten Monty? More to the point: what the hell was Hetty thinking of when she dressed him up like this and where exactly did she get that costume come from? Actually, I probably don't want to know the answer to that one. I'm just wondering how come Monty let Hetty put him into that costume, when then I remember how she's managed to coax Callen into a number of horrific outfits over the years. Clearly she has some sort of power that makes man and dog obey her. Or maybe Monty's just scared of her? Actually, that wouldn't surprise me, because Monty isn't nearly as daft as he looks. I kneel down to give him a hug, by way of apology for a)leaving him behind and b) allowing him to be subjected to Hetty's tender mercies, only I get kind of distracted, because the next thing I know is that Kensi is kneeling down on Monty's other side, and our heads nearly collide.

I pull back just in time to avoid a painful conclusion, and our eyes meet. And in that instant I'm hooked, I'm completely drawn in and I don't care that we are in a soup kitchen in one of the poorer areas of LA, or even that Hetty and Angela are both standing just a foot away, because the world has contracted right down to two people. There is only one thing to do – and I do it. I reach out my hands to Kensi and we stand up slowly. For a moment we just stand there, and I can see a small smile playing on her lips. That is it. That is officially the moment when I don't care about anything else any more.

So to hang with the consequences, because I don't care about anything except Kensi. There is only one thing that matters right now and she is standing her, holding onto my hands and giving me a look that is urging me on. So I kiss her – of course I do It's what I've been longing to do for hours. And she kisses me back, and we would probably go on kissing for the longest time, only I can't quite ignore the way there is this huge round of applause, a dog scrabbling at my leg and this little voice in speaking in my ear.

"Marty?"

Once again we're interrupted, only this time it is Angela. "You've both been here long enough. It's time for you to go." She sounds strangely insistent.

Standing beside is her Hetty, but this is a Hetty I have never seen before. She has the strangest look on her face and if I didn't know her better, I might almost think she looked embarrassed. Clearing her throat, Hetty pushes something into my hand.

"I find I have been rather remiss with my festive gifts this year. This is just a small token of my esteem for you both."

It's the funniest thing, but she totally refuses to meet my eyes when she says that. I look down and see that I'm holding a file card, with an address written on it in fountain pen, and this rather cryptic message:

"_Everyone needs to be somewhere at Christmas,  
and this is where you need to be.  
Everything is ready and waiting for you."_

There's no signature, just this funny squiggle, which could say anything at all. If you squint hard enough, it might even say "love, Hetty". Except that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?

"So, what are you waiting for?" Hetty enquires caustically, having recovered her normal _sang froid_. "Victory?"

That's not exactly what I had in mind, but it'll do, because I don't feel inclined to go into details right now.

And then Hetty makes a shooing motion with her hands, just in case we don't get the hint. "Go on! Get out of here."

I don't have to be told twice and neither does Kensi. We high-tail it out of there, hand in hand like two high school kids. I know I'm leaving Monty behind, but hey – he's a big boy. And I'm sure he'd love to sleep over with Auntie Hetty or Auntie Angela. What they think about that idea remains to be seen.

* * *

"It's kind of like a treasure hunt, isn't it?" Kensi says, plugging the zip code into the sat nav, as I start the engine. I don't answer, mainly because I'm thinking that I want to find that the present at the end of the trail is Kensi. It's probably safest that I drive, because Kensi is a lousy driver at the best of times, and God knows neither of us really has our minds on the journey ahead – except as a means to an end. There is this whole host of anticipation and expectation building up inside me and it's taking me all my time to concentrate on driving and not be distracted by the fact that Kensi is wearing her tightest jeans and looking insanely hot. Things aren't helped by the fact she puts her hand on my knee, and then lets it move up until she's caressing my thigh. Landing up in the ER is so not how I want things to end today.

But some guardian angel is watching over us, because we reach our destination without incident, despite the fact that Kensi's hand moves steadily up to curve around my inner thigh, so that I'm biting my lips really hard not to cry out or just pull the car off the road. The house is incredible: it's high up in the Hollywood hills and it's sleek and modern, with gates that move silently open as we approach, just like someone is expecting us.

"Wow!" Kensi's mouth is open as she takes a good look at the house, where the dark wood doors stand ajar, with a man in a white jacket and dark pants almost standing to attention in front of them. "This is like Fantasy Island, or something."

No, this is how the rich live, I think. Not for the first time, I wonder why Hetty is still working at NCIS, when she clearly has no need to. Just for starters, she has more houses than I have suits. Not that I'm complaining, because as fantasies go, this one is damned near perfect, right down to the girl at my side. And the best thing is that it is all real – this is actually happening to me. To us.

"We've been expecting you." The man does this half-bow and ushers us inside, where everything is white – white walls, white flooring, white furnishings. We walk forward in silence and I think that Kensi as right – this is fantasy island come to life in LA, and I'm about to have my fantasies come to life.

"Miss Lang though you might wish to freshen up?"

Now, while this might sound like a suggestion, take my word for it that it isn't. It appears that gratification is going to be delayed, by order of Miss Lang. Sometimes you just have to accept the inevitable. Who am I to argue with Hetty – especially when she can put together something like this?

So we follow him upstairs, where we are ushered into separate rooms. Mine is minimally furnished – just a vast bed with pristine bedding – white, of course. I'm sensing a theme here, which continues when I venture into the bathroom. Looks like somebody went mad in the towel department. Do you want to hazard a guess at what colour they are? By the time I come out of the shower and back into the bedroom, there's a shirt and dress pants lying on the bed for me. For some reason, I'm not entirely surprised to see that they are both exactly the right size. As are the boxers. Now, that really worries me. How come Hetty knows that I wear boxers in the first place, far less what brand I prefer?

Anyway, time is moving on – it's getting dark outside, so I hustle into the clothes and run down stairs, trying not to wonder how Hetty has managed to arrange all this at such short notice. I never thought I would say this, but clearly there is more to Hetty than meets the eye.

"Perhaps you might wish to wait here for the lady?"

By now I have learned enough to do exactly as I'm told. This set-up is becoming increasingly like walking into some sort of parallel universe, but so far all is good, so I'm willing just to go with the flow. I know I've made the right decision when Kensi appears at the top of the stairs and then walks slowly down towards me.

"You look so beautiful."

And more than that – Kensi looks more beautiful than I have ever seen her. She's wearing this long dress in midnight blue that clings to every inch of her body; her hair is piled up on top of her head and I'm pretty sure those are real diamonds sparkling in her ears. But it's the look in her eyes that really blows me away. They are blazing with excitement and that in turn sets the blood rushing through my veins, so that I can hear it drumming in my ears, along with the thundering of my heart.

Now, I'm not normally one for huge, grand gestures, but there is just something about this house, and especially the way Kensi looks tonight that makes me offer her my hand as she finally reaches the foot of the stairs. And it might be corny, and utterly unlike me – but I bend my head to kiss her hand and watch as this flush appears high on her cheekbones.

"If you would like to follow me?"

Again, he speaks so courteously, but there is no hiding the fact this is another command, but we don't care. We follow him like a man in a daze. Or two people who have been given an opportunity to live out this incredible fairy-tale in real life. We follow him towards a set of double doors at the rear of the house which are standing slightly ajar, just like they are waiting for us to go through to the other side.

"The dining room," our guide announces, and then ushers us in.

And this is beyond amazing. Again, the predominant hue is white – but the room is dominated by floor to ceiling windows that give an incredible panoramic view of the city lying far below us. You can't see any of the dirt and mayhem, or here the pandemonium – no, we are floating above a sea of tiny pin-pricks of lights shining bravely through the velvet darkness of evening.

"I don't believe this is actually happening," Kensi says, just as the wall of glass starts to move silently to one side, revealing a terrace that wraps around the house. Below us lies an infinity pool, and I can hear the water lapping softly, the only discernible sound in the night.

Well, there's only one thing to do, isn't there? And one thing to say.

"Believe it."

And I kiss her, like I've been longing to kiss her since the day we first met. I kiss Kensi with all the pent-up longing that has been building up. It's a fierce, hard kiss, but it is the passion with which it is returned that nearly takes my breath away. I feel like all my Christmases have come at once.

There is a discrete cough behind us, and we break apart to find our friend standing there, holding out a tray with two glasses of champagne.

"Miss Lang sends you her compliments. We are just serving the meal, and then we will leave you." For a second the impassive look desserts his face completely, to be replaced by a broad smile. "And I do hope you have a very merry Christmas."

"Oh, we will," Kensi assures him solemnly. The effect is slightly ruined by the entirely wicked sparkle on her face that hints of the pleasures to come. So we have to wait a while? What's a few more minutes when I can almost see what lies ahead, beckoning me forward irresistibly? It's almost as if Hetty has set this up deliberately, just to heighten the moment. Ah, Hetty. So small and yet so devious. How am I ever going to thank Hetty for giving us tonight? Could it be any more perfect?

"Here's to us." I raise my glass up high and Kensi does the same.

"To you and I. Because we've only just begun."

"I'll drink to that."

The champagne is cold and deliciously dry, but that's not why a shiver runs down my spine. Oh no, that is entirely down to the fact that Kensi is here, right by my side and tonight has only just begun. Who knows what could happen next?

"It was always you, Kensi," I confess. "Right from the moment we met."

"I knew you were the one." She takes our glasses and put them down on the table. "Only I tried so hard not to believe it. But I'm tired of fighting my feelings."

There have been occasions when people have accused me of talking too much, of not knowing when to stop. This is not one of these times. The only possible thing to do under the circumstances is to take Kensi in my arms and to kiss her.

And the whole city lies down in front of us, a pattern of lights that stretch down to the sea. I realise that I have everything I've been searching for right here in my arms and that tomorrow can be whatever I want to be. The possibilities are endless and the promise is infinite. And in the meantime, we have this house, tonight and the stars above.

After a long while, we go back indoors and eat a meal by candlelight, talking of everything and of nothing as we exchange long looks at one another and just think how wonderful life is right now, and how it is about to get even better. There is something about prolonging the moment we both know is coming that is incredibly erotic. Kensi sits across the table from me, and the soft shadows flicker across her skin, making it glow in the half-light. Our knees touch and every so often our hands do too. When I look into her eyes, it is as if I can see all the secrets of the universe just waiting to be discovered. She bends her head slightly and the candlelight turns her eyes to fire, and I feel a similar flame lick through my body. It is time.

We walk through the silent house, for everyone is gone now, leaving us entirely alone. The darkness feels like an old friend and is punctuated by a series of white candles burning bravely on each step of the staircase, lighting our pathway. We go slowly upstairs, with the silky fabric of Kensi's dress rustling softly so that it almost sounds like a sigh of anticipation.

* * *

This is not reality – we have shaken off all the earthly bonds that once tore us apart. This is hyper-reality, the world as it should be and I can't quite believe this is happening at long last. The feel of her naked body as my hands skim over her skin, the way her eyes adore me is almost beyond belief, but transcending all that and more is the way we make love. Oh, it is slow and sweet, gentle and yearning, the perfect culmination of so much yearning. It is also fierce and deep, so that there is a moment when everything goes dark, as the world has just ended. No matter, for I could die happy here, surrounded by love. The world expands and then contracts; explodes into colour and then cuts into black and I'm falling. Only Kensi is there to catch me: I'm in her arms and nothing else matters, for there is nothing else at all. There is just me, Kensi and this moment. Life is sublime and the world is just waiting for us. But in the meantime, the night is still young and there are so many things I want to do, so many things I need to tell her that a lifetime will not be enough.

"Best. Christmas. EVER," Kensi says emphatically, if slightly breathlessly.

"Like you said earlier: we've only just begun."

And I kiss her again and again and again, for I can never get enough of her kisses, the way she feels and the little moans of pleasure she utters just spur me on. Once again I experience that perfect moment when time slips away into nothingness and reality is confined to the immediate present and the series of sensations that are surrounding me, blowing everything else away.

Life is very sweet right now. In fact, it's pretty damned perfect. On a night like this, anything could happen. I'm going to make sure of that. Oh yes, life is sweet. Not as sweet as Kensi though, with her skin like satin and her wicked eyes and her tongue that could tease an angel out of heaven.

"I don't want this to ever stop," I confess.

"I keep telling you Deeks: this is only the beginning. I'm never letting you go."

Kensi is lying on top of me and she's looking down, with her hair falling forward. If I could capture only one picture of her, or hold just one image in my mind, then this would be it. I've finally found what I was looking for and got to the point where it really is a wonderful life. And you can't say much better than that, can you?

"And it's only going to get better," I whisper.

"You'd better believe it."

And I do. Finally, I can believe. Angela was wrong about one thing – there are some things that can last forever. Like love. I really do believe that.

**THE END**

* * *

_It's nice when there's a happy ending, isn't it? And this story has more than one happy ending, because I was originally approached to write it specifically for a Christmas publication, only to be told it wasn't what was wanted. And that really threw me. I was so hurt and I felt I was being made to feel guilty for dreaming my dreams in my own way. I almost gave up writing at that point._

_However, friends convinced me that it __**was**__ a good story, and one that deserved to be told, so I published it here on fanfic. In the words of Kensi and Deeks "It is what it is." And the reaction to it has been so amazing – it has restored my faith in myself as a writer. _

_So I owe a huge debt of thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing: you have made me realise that I should never stop dreaming, and most of all that dreams are what you make of them. _

_Especial thanks must go to Anna and Lindy, for their continued support and encouragement, and most of all for their friendship – this story is for both of you, with my love._

_A joyous, peaceful and very happy Christmas to you and all those you hold dear._


End file.
